


The Track Keeps Skipping

by Michelle_A_Emerlind



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Disjointed narrative, First Kiss, M/M, Mention of Current Hamilton/Jefferson, Years of Pining, past Hamilton/Laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7484841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/pseuds/Michelle_A_Emerlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no singular moment in which it begins and this, of course, is typical. Nothing in Burr’s life is ever clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Track Keeps Skipping

There is no singular moment in which it begins and this, of course, is typical. Nothing in Burr’s life is ever clean, ever cut to corners--pliable to fractions, surface area, or diameter. His life is and will always be the long mirage that blurs in heat air, the air he lost his parents and their legacy to, the air of the war he tried to be a part of, was a part of, and yet never belonged to. The air that he feels himself losing to now, wasting away minute by minute, tick by tick, like his limbs are soft and his smile has become transparent in the face of Laurens (always Laurens) in his office doorway, staring, his eyes wide, unforgiving pools that Burr wants to scream at, wants to fall into, wants to…

But he is ahead of himself now. That moment is present, but where did it begin? What on God’s earth has led them here--through the wide streets of New York shining in revolution, through the fire of cannon blasts, through the long hallway of law and office and grace and waiting, always waiting…

Burr is aimless in everything he does. And even though he hates it, even if the fire burning beneath his smile rages, it seems that in the area of love, yes, he is still unclear. But this is what he remembers…

***

A cafe. A Starbucks. Or at least he thinks so. He can’t remember perfectly and it boils his blood. If he were Hamilton, he could cite every person milling around, could enumerate the number of scarves and boots and cups--whether it was raining or sun, whether it was spring or fall, whether the cashier was woman or man, but Burr...Burr can’t even remember what coffee he ordered.

It was hot. He remembers that. Too hot of a drink for the warmth outside and he’s not the only one who had the bright idea to slip indoors to escape the humidity. In fact, he grabs the last free table in the corner and perches on the chair, opens his newspaper and scans over the words aimlessly, trying as always (or perhaps this was the start of it) to put himself into the world, to desperately find a place for himself.

“Seat taken?”

That’s Laurens. He remembers the voice vividly, like the first church bell after the last battlefield, like the sound of the gavel in court, and his mother’s song. Laurens’ tone is light, carefree. They haven’t met yet. This is the first time. Burr wishes he knew what he had been wearing, if he could remember his hair up or down, if he held his cup in his right hand or left.  But Burr is not thunder or lightning. He has never been something special.

“No,” he says.

Laurens sits with a bright smile. Burr recognizes the feeling, even if he can’t remember the arch of his lips. “John Laurens.”

“Ah? Ah! Aaron Burr.”

Laurens shakes his hand. “Sir! Nice to meet you. Finally.”

“Finally?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you. Sorry. Should I not say that?” He leans forward. Burr leans away, but the air is warm and inviting and he finds the lines in his shoulders releasing even slightly to the stranger.

“No, please…?” There is a question. Then comfort. What was it and where did it come from? Was it his hands, so quick and light, but held in a delicate dance like even then he was aware of the space Burr crafted so carefully around himself? Or was it his skin, light in the sun (yes, it was the sun, a sunny day, he remembers now, the freckles, the way like braille they read)? Or his eyes? It must have been his eyes. It was always his eyes, but back then, they were lighter, less heavy. Back then when there was no such thing as Alexander Hamilton, back before any of this ever began, back before...but no. Not this moment. That one. And Laurens’ response.

“Yes, you’re the man from Princeton, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around. Pardon for not introducing myself earlier. I know that’s pretty creepy of me. Anyway…”

“You’re fine,” Burr tells him, social art already thick on his tongue with pleasantries and small talk, but John has none of it. Five minutes later and Burr can’t even remember, but…

“And so there I was,” Laurens is laughing, “heart in my throat, in front of the _entire class_ and I couldn’t even name the colonies. South Carolina! How had I forgotten South Carolina?”

Burr laughs with him and surprises himself at the authenticity of it. “In London?”

“Yes, in London!”

“You’re in London--”

“--yes--”

“--studying law and you’re from _America_ and you can’t remember the names--”

“--the names of the damn colonies. The name of _my_ damn colony!”

They chuckle together. Laurens leans in. Burr doesn’t lean back. They talk--Burr doesn’t remember what of, only bits and pieces thrown around like seashells in the sand. Laurens’ dedication to revolutionary ideas. Burr’s nervous energy to carry on his family’s name.

At the end, when the sun has set--they have stayed there all day--Burr wonders, briefly in the moment like a rattling hymn that runs up and down his spine and sings through the top of his head--if this has been _something_. If this man smiles at him because it’s him or because he just smiles. If there is ever a world in which Aaron dares to touch something so alive as Laurens, if he could ever hoped to be touched back.

Laurens leaves him amicably, stating quick frankly they’ll have to do it again sometime. He leaves the receipt for his coffee accidentally and Burr picks it up, folds it without looking and tears so no one will read the credit card number.

He sees Laurens again later that week and all but has his mouth open to ask, but by that point Laurens has met Lafayette and Mulligan. By that point, Burr has lost.

***

Now, he stands in Burr’s doorway, shaking with a rage that Burr has never seen in anyone--Hamilton included--and clutching the blue folder to his side like a bomb. “Fuck you,” he seethes and the hatred in his eyes is venom Burr has never felt.

And this is impressive. In Burr’s short life, he has seen many things born of rage. He has seen the full fury of the American forces, has witnessed Washington high on his white horse as he bellows at Charles Lee with the fire of hellhounds behind his words. He has seen the British as they fall, lawmen when the jury swings left, politicians after the Constitutional Convention. He has seen Hamilton fighting for legislation, Hamilton fighting for politics, Hamilton fighting for the Treasury, Hamilton fighting for his own life and sanity in the wake of Reynolds and yes, yes, Burr has seen Hamilton with all his rage and all his fury directed at Jefferson, was a key player in watching the fire as it roared and swallowed them up into something more telling than either of them had ever imagined. Marriage.

And yet, he has never seen passion like the passion of Laurens in front of him. And even though he should fall in the face of it, even though he should cower, he finds no emotion within his soul but a stark and heavy flood of relief.

He looks down at his desk, away, and this is defeat enough.

Laurens storms into the room and kicks his desk. It jumps and Burr jumps with it, his eyes flying back to Laurens. “You think this is fucking _funny_?” John asks.

But at least he is asking. At least he is storming, at least he is kicking, at least there is still voice in his throat and Aaron has missed it so much, he feels like weeping. When was the last time John has sounded like this, like _himself_? Years ago, but how can a stone remain shining when the water keeps destroying it? First a marriage never meant to work, a girl pregnant. A divorce. A child ripped away. Then the protests. One after the other with no sense of relief, no sense of progress, just urgency and more urgency and more urgency until the one day. The day Aaron felt like it was him that almost lost his life instead of John. His lung that the bullet pierced, his lung that collapsed. And it might as well have been.

And then the slow recovery. And then Hamilton, wasn’t it always that fucking bastard? Wasn’t it always the man who didn’t understand decency, love, human emotion? _Hamilton_. Who first took John away under the pretenses of caring and then neglected him, bit by bit by bit by day by day by day until it was Aaron, wasn’t it fucking Aaron who walked in on that sweltering hot July day to find Laurens already at his desk, even amidst the televisions that kept surrounding them-- _the Reynolds Scandal, the Reynolds Scandal, the Reynolds...his poor boyfriend_ \--and wasn’t it Aaron with him when all the others left?

And Jefferson. After all of it. After having to watch Hamilton soar and burn and destroy himself like a martyr falling on his own sword, but now. Their happy marriage. And the reflection of it in John’s dull eyes.

“I had to,” Burr whispers. What else can he say?

“You had to,” Laurens spits and lifts the folder only to slap it on his thigh. “ _Ten fucking years_ , Aaron. For ten fucking...why the fuck didn’t you...why didn’t you _then_?”

Burr frowns. “Then--”

“On our first fucking date,” John chokes and oh how words are meaningless. How nothing can describe the sound.

“Our first--”

“The coffeeshop, Aaron. The coffee--”

“--date?--”

“--don’t--”

“--we weren’t--”

“--I left my number. Baby, I…” John turns, hand in his hair crinkled and worn. How alive it used to be, they used to be. “I left my number on my receipt. Didn’t you--”

“--you what?--”

“--fuck.” John pauses, one hand to his mouth, the other clutching the folder. “I wanted you to call me.”

“I...I didn’t know.”

“I flirted with you for _years_.”

“I didn’t know.” Burr reaches slowly, puts his hand out on the wood even as John turns. “But I know now.”

Laurens drops. Folds into the chair across from Burr and lifts his fist back to his mouth. Burr doesn’t comment on its shaking. “Why? Why the fuck now?”

And in any other situation, in any other way, Burr wouldn’t speak. Or he would, but the phrases would be pat and meaningless, tied up in little bows with glitter meant to distract. But this is Laurens. And there is nothing to distract Burr from Laurens. “Because you were dying.” And it’s true. Not in flesh, but in mind, which is worse, Burr knows because he has felt it. The mirage. The heat air stifling and hot and burning his throat, smothering him.

“I hate you,” John whispers in a gasp of air rushed from his body. The folder is wet and they don’t speak of it.

“...give it to me,” Burr says with all his delicacy. “I’ll shred it,” he promises with his grace.

“ _No_ ,” John growls, more of a lion than Hamilton will ever dream to be. “You don’t get to take it back.”

Burr quiets. Stills. This is his pièce de résistance. This is his crescendo. And it must burn white hot and true and wide and free and wild. Or it must die in ashes and be buried under pounds of water and sand, to be eaten away by the earth. The folder cannot both be and not be destroyed. “John--”

“Fuck you,” he snaps again. “I love you.” The words are not soft, but harsh, spitting rattlesnakes and it is this that gives Aaron’s heart soar. Because there is nothing in him that deserves soft and nothing in John either. The bitterness makes it feel real and true. Something in defiance of the world, a moment that they steal from themselves in the wake of the Hamiltons and Jeffersons of this country. “I have always loved you.”

“John, I--”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” He throws down the folder now, lets it clatter between them. “Don’t say it unless you take those...unless you take the resignations and you put both of them on Jefferson’s desk. Unless you call that fucking house in fucking San Francisco and you fucking buy it. Unless you sell your car, because we don’t need two. We just need you and me and two sets of wheels to get us the _fuck_ out of here.”

He quiets except for one last intake of air and Burr lets the silence fill them both before he moves his hand across the surface of the desk to take John’s fingers in his own. “You want this?”

John gasps out a scoff and shakes his head, his mouth trembling, but his eyes begging. “I have _never_ wanted something more.”

And so Burr kisses him. Leans over his desk and ends up in a half sitting, half standing position that has none of his usual grace or poise and presses himself to John, kisses him to remember every detail, every curve of his lips, every noise from his throat--all the things he will never speak but tucks down deep into his body, sews into the lining of his heart. And John kisses back--kisses back for ten years and for all the lives ruined on the way like bodies thrown into the dirt, kisses for every fumble, every fall, every step they have always taken toward one another because even before now, they have been hand-in-hand. Even before now, they have arced together like two sparks bright in the air and it is true that Burr, well, Burr has never been anything original, anything special, anything new.

But with John he is impossible. With John he is inimitable, infallible, indestructible. With John, there will never be a mirage. And he will never lose.


End file.
